


legacy

by 님 (nymmiah)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Childbirth, F/M, Family Fluff, Female Viera Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Gen, Mentioned OCs, Not Canon Compliant, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymmiah/pseuds/%EB%8B%98
Summary: Heralding the birth of his first child was naught but a single cry from the Warrior of Light for him to find the nearest chirurgeon.In which Aymeric and the Warrior of Light celebrate the arrival of their long-awaited child.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	legacy

It had never occurred to Aymeric until the very moment he laid eyes upon his son that perfection could yet be reimagined.

There his wife lay in their marriage bed, looking at him with eyes lethargic and wet, her countenance red with the exertion of childbirth. Within her arms lay their child, skin yet soaked with the fluids of his birth and swaddled in a length of white linen.

In the dark of the chamber, she smiled at him and bade him to look upon their son, even as the midwife fussed over her and wiped her clean of blood and fluid.

And so, he drew close, reverently, hesitantly, to behold the boy cradled in her grasp.

Beautifully was he formed, though yet reddened and skin loose with the newness of his life. His small face was scrunched up, eyes shut tight, his perfect little mouth parted to yowl powerfully into the air. With the peach-tipped ears atop his head, he was the very picture of his mother, strong and magnificent. Ten perfectly-formed fingers grasped at the air, clutching for something yet unknown, and Aymeric could only marvel at the smallness of his appendages, the rounded stubs of his fingernails.

"He has your nose," his wife murmured quietly, leaning into his side as he came closer still. Their son continued to struggle within her arms, his howls slowly quietening into exhausted snuffling. "He will look as if your very image when he grows up, and I shall despair over how unfairly beautiful of a creature we have made."

Aymeric wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "I give praise to Halone that you and our son have survived,” he murmured softly, finally daring to give voice to his fears, so sprung when his wife had called upon the chirurgeons that morning.

Eight moons and a mere sennight heavy with child, she had been far too early to have been due. It could have only been by the grace of the Twelve that she had survived, and that their son was—entirely healthy, loud and powerful despite the toil of his birth.

His wife smiled, and she pressed her head to his neck, leaning upon him. Her weight was a reassuring pressure, soothing within him the anxiety of the unexpected birth. “Your son is strong. You should have expected him to come out healthy, when he would so kick within the womb.”

Aymeric was ever reminded of the wonderous sensation of their child within her, the fluttering kicks within that bespoke of their son’s ferocity even when yet alive. He smiled then, and he shook his head. “I suppose I should have. And I should hope he has your eyes to match his ears. I would be the most blessed man in the realm should this hope come true."

"I would not be opposed to having many more children by you, if only to have a child that bears  _ your _ own eyes. That shall make me the most blessed woman." The Warrior smiled up at him, as if the image she painted with her words was not something from his most coveted dreams. "They are such a beautiful colour, and it would be a shame that they are not preserved in our children."

Aymeric could feel his countenance heat up in embarrassed pleasure at her words, yet unused to her praise. He was saved from answering her when the midwife came forth, bidding his wife to pass her their son such that he could be brought to a wetnurse.

It was then that the tired contentment faded from the Warrior's countenance, replaced by a ferocity that more befit a battlefield.

"I am capable of feeding mine own bairn," the Warrior denied, tightening her grip upon their son. Defiance painted her every ilm, regardless of the lethargy that would doubtlessly plague her limbs. "Mayhap your delicate elezen women are incapable of producing milk for their children, but my chest shall finally fulfil its purpose."

In the face of the midwife's scandalised horror, she shifted their son within her grasp. She pulled the neck of her shirt down, exposing her breasts. Flagrantly she disregarded all Ishgardian propriety, but that was surely to be expected from his outlander wife.

For all the lewdness of the sight, Aymeric watched, fascinated, as their son latched onto her breast to partake in his first meal.

It was then that he finally reached out, hesitantly laying his hand upon his son. His skin was so delicate beneath his fingers that Aymeric was frightened to even attempt to stroke the length of his cheek, anxious that he would break the boy under his clumsy touch.

Hungrily, their son drank, and lovingly, his wife cradled him close. Distantly, Aymeric was aware of the midwife leaving the room in a scandalised huff, doubtlessly to seek persons to gasp over the events within this room. His wife, headstrong she, had already broken convention by allowing Aymeric to enter her chambers so soon after birth, by refusing to clasp either sigil nor hang tapestry of the Twelve.

Silence fell upon them, broken only by their son's rather noisy suckling and the Warrior's soft and exotic humming. An unknown tune it was to Aymeric, and he wondered if it were a song from her own youth.

"I would not be surprised if you've inspired no less than six horrifyingly scandalous rumours of your indignity and lack of propriety," Aymeric remarked in amusement.

"If exposing my breast to feed my child is so base a deed, they would be even more horrified by what other reasons for which I have exposed my breasts," his wife replied primly. She sent him yet another smile, eyes glittering with mischief. "And if it is because I have exposed myself in front of  _ you _ , then I shall be pleased to add to the rumours that you have seen far more of me than merely my chest."

Aymeric let out a laugh, drawing his hand away from their son. He caressed his wife's countenance, watching as she leaned into his fingers. "Pray, be gentle with the rumour-mongers. The gentle Ishgardian folk shall not survive the thought of a man beholding his wife's naked form."

"I am the Warrior of Light, as you Eorzeans love to claim. I will be as gentle as I wish to be," she stated firmly. “May those who oppose me fall before my feet.” She turned her head to kiss his wrist.

Try as he might, he could not stop the affection that welled up within his chest.

"I could do naught to stop you, my lady wife and mother to my child; all I could do is to support you in all that you choose to do," he murmured quietly. "Whether it is to scandalise midwives by refusing a wetnurse, or to slay primals halfway across Hydaelyn."

The Warrior smiled up at him again, radiant and beautiful. She tilted her chin up, silently bidding him to kiss her. He obeyed her, swiftly and willingly, pressing their lips together chastely.

“My lord husband is far too good to me,” she murmured into his mouth.

“I do my best for you, for you deserve nothing less,” he replied honestly.

The adoration in her green eyes silenced him from saying anything more. She kissed him once more, then turned to gaze down upon their son. She stroked the round curve of his head, yet to be covered by hair. Undoubtedly, whatever downy hair he would grow would turn as black as the fur upon his ears, mayhap streaked with the peach that tipped his fur.

She let out a soft hum as she bent down to kiss their son upon his bald crown, a smile playing upon her lips.

This moment before him was the realisation of the sweetest dreams conjured by his wandering mind; a divine reward from the Fury, mayhap, that he deserved not a whit. His lady wife, their newly born son within her arms, and her eyes warm and bright as she gazed down to him with a love so ardent it ached.

It deserved to be proclaimed the depth of his fortune and blessing, that he understood his luck at being so obviously beloved by Halone that he could receive all this.

Words failed him however, for his silver tongue had been wrought for battle and politics. He had yet great inexperience in words of romance. He would try nonetheless, as he always did.

"I love you," he murmured, overcome by the swelling within his chest. He called out her name, reached out to cradle her mien within his hand, and he kissed her gently. “You are perfect, and I ever praise the Twelve that you would deign to love me back.”

The Warrior sighed into his lips. “And what of our child?” She asked softly, a smile turning her countenance into something radiant. “Have you any words to wax over him?”

“He has stepped out of my most treasured dreams and into the waking world. He is everything that I could have prayed for,” Aymeric declared firmly. He touched their son’s countenance once more, and he could see how their infant squirmed against her breast, lethargy finally robbing him of his strength. “I love him far more than I could have imagined possible, though he has not lived for more than a bell. I would sunder the very sky itself should anything happen to him.”

“As would I,” she remarked. “--But our son is strong. Mayhap we shall not have to worry for him.”

Despite the brevity of his suckling, the act seemed to have tired their son out. Already, the instinctive twitch of his lips slowed with each draught he drank. They would not have the opportunity to see the colour of his eyes until he properly awoke; Aymeric was full eager to bear witness to the sight.

Aymeric pressed a kiss to the crown of his wife’s head once more, and he held her tightly to his side. “Thank you, my love. You’ve toiled to make him so perfectly.”

"And we have yet to toil more, love mine. Have you decided what we shall name our son?" She asked. Pulling their son from her breast, she corrected her clothing to protect her modesty once more.

He paused. "I had believed that we already had names prepared for our possible children."

"We had. But now that our son is in the world… I wonder if Émile is the name that suits him," she murmured thoughtfully. She stroked their son’s mien, though he stirred not. "I understand that it was your late father's name, but mayhap we can make it his second name."

"The late viscount was a good man," Aymeric murmured. "He was kind."

The Warrior looked at him. "And our son is fierce. Kindness is a blessing that I will not deny him, but that is not what becomes of our child, Aymeric."

Their son lay slumbering in her arms, swaddled in cloth and peaceful, utterly unaware of their discussion.

Mayhap she was correct that his foster father's name would not fit their son greatly. However, Aymeric could think not of a man nor woman who inspired within him a strength with which he wished to bless his son.

Of his acquaintances and family: Estinien's strength had been born of tragedy. Haurchefant an ache far too close to heart, and the use of Count Edmont's name would be far too presumptuous when the man had yet two living sons without children to their own name. He would use not the name of his blood father, nor any of the Knights Twelve. Lucia's name had already been promised to any future daughter of theirs, as had Iceheart’s, and he could think of no other man whose name he could bestow upon their son.

He needed a name that bespoke of strength, of ferocity… of perseverance and a want for peace.

Aymeric stilled, hesitance imbued in his every act when a name suddenly sprung to mind. No man he knew had a name that would fit, but did they have to constrain themselves to man alone?

"Would Hraesvelgr be an adequate namesake?" He asked.

Despite the alliance that lay many years-strong between the Ishgardians and the Dravanians, that name would not sit well among the nobility that yet ruled in the House of Lords, nor would the leaders of the House of Commons think kindly upon it, but Aymeric could think of none other man nor non-man that could embody that which his wife wanted for their progeny.

Aymeric could mistake not the surprise upon his wife's countenance, but the grin that appeared upon her lips was just as evident to his eyes. She approved.

"Mayhap not his name letter for letter but… it would be, indeed." She bent down to their son, kissing the crown of his delicate head. "My little dragon," she murmured softly. "Hraesvel Émile de Borel. May you be as powerful as your namesake, and as long-lived as he."

It came to mind that his wife had been endowed with Hraesvelgr's eye, that she wielded the immense power of the great wrym--and that Midgardsormr, Father of Dragons himself, had extended his covenant with her. It had to be fitting that their son would now bear the name of the selfsame dragon that had brokered peace with their people all those millennia ago. It also came to mind that by his own blood did the boy hold the remnants of betrayed Ratatoskr in his veins.

A dragon indeed their son would be, by both the blood of his father and his mother.

"Hraesvel," Aymeric echoed quietly, oblivious to the manner in which his wife stilled, her gaze now fixed at a point past his shoulder. "The first of his name--but mayhap not the last." He gently stroked the top of his son's head, marvelling at the smoothness of his scalp, and he stooped once more to kiss his wife.

“It is a good name,” she whispered quietly. "Proudly shall he bear it."

"I shall soon have to take my leave to return to my post--and to reassure Lucia that naught has gone wrong with you," Aymeric stated quietly. "She was most concerned when the messengers came to the Congregation. We shall not announce the birth of our son to the peoples of Ishgard for yet another week, but I think we should bring our friends and family good tidings.”

“Yes… I believe telling dear Lucia and House Fortemps shall suffice for now,” the Warrior agreed. “And Hilda—should you be able to find her in private.” She had her own Scions to tell, no doubt, but they were yet far from them in distance.

She paused.

Aymeric would be sure to help his wife pen them correspondence when she was less tired. At that moment , exhaustion was plain to see within her fair features, and with their son fed and slumbering, it was most certainly time to allow her to repose.

“Will you rest now, my lady wife?"

The Warrior looked up at him, and she held her arms out. It was clear that she wished for him to take hold of their newly named son. "Take our Hraesvel to his crib--yonder there. And please, tell Claire that she should wake me when he stirs."

“Ah—yes. At once,” Aymeric conceded, hesitantly taking hold of their son into his arm under her careful supervision.

Hraesvel’s weight was almost imperceptible in his arms, but the sheer delicacy of his form was palpable. Cradling his small head against the crook of his elbow, Aymeric could feel how even the slightest pressure of his fingers near  _ sank _ into his skin, so soft was the crown of his head now held in his grip.

It was terrifying to realise the sheer fragility of their son, and he could understand not how trusting his wife was that he would not accidentally break him.

Aymeric near trembled, admittedly too frightened to take even one step with the boy in his arms lest he somehow cause some unknown damage.

It was to this that Warrior laughed where she lay, somehow finding amusement in his terror. "He shall not break within your grip, my love," she proclaimed, fearless Warrior she. "He is swaddled, and will tumble not out of your hands."

"How can one be so  _ soft _ ?" Aymeric asked, his question more a plea for his wife to deliver him from this situation. "I must admit, I fear that even just moving one step shall jostle him to the point that he will get hurt."

"You and I were once like this," the Warrior replied, smiling, "and we have survived being transferred from place to place. Summon your courage from whence it hides, my brave Aymeric, as well as your great amount of faith. You will not harm our child, for you will not allow yourself to do so.”

With such a sincere proclamation of belief, he could do naught but concede, taking hesitant step after step with his fragile son within the cradle of his arms to the crib that his wife had had set by their bed.

Under her watchful eye, he set their son down into his crib, and he tucked a child-sized duvet around his form lest the Ishgardian cold seep into the room.

Through it all, Hraesvel stirred not, his lips parted in his quiet slumber.

Looking upon his face, Aymeric could see in it a wholly pure form of peace, something that could only be wrought from his innocence and something divinely given. His lashes were dark against the paleness of his cheek, and his lips a moistened pink. Cherubic he was in every manner. He would not be found disbelieving should anyone have claimed the boy an attendant of Halone above.

Aymeric had somehow brought this beautiful child to life, had somehow been given the blessing of being his father.

He could stop not his hand from descending once more to touch the child in wonder, yet unable to believe his utter perfection.

“Was that so difficult?” His wife asked from her distant perch upon their bed.

Turning, he saw her. She was radiant from her tired vantage upon the bed, watching him eyes that rapidly grew heavy with sleep.

"Nay… Though it could not have been nearly as difficult as the task that you have so successfully completed," Aymeric replied quietly. He finally pulled his hand from Hraesvel, leaving him to slumber to return to the side of his wife where he gently caressed her cheek. "You've fought well, and our son now lives and breathes."

The Warrior let out a laugh, and she kissed his hand. “A more challenging opponent I have never faced until this day. I am glad to have been found worthy, and to have found victory.” She took hold of his wrist and squeezed it. “Now go, find our good lady Claire so that I might sleep and our son watched. The sooner I have rested, the sooner we may be rid of the bed and its stench.”

She was undoutably exaggerating, for the cloths and linens had already been bundled and the leathers protecting the mattress removed—but the air yet hung heavy with the odour of blood and flesh, made all the more heavy with the darkness of the room.

“As you wish, my lady Borel,” Aymeric agreed softly. He drew his hand away from her countenance when she released his wrist, and he watched her settle upon the bed tiredly, her motions stiff and tense. It was evident that she was sore for she moved not her legs nor hips. No word of complaint left her. “Sleep well; I shall return as swiftly as I can.”

“Make not promises that you cannot keep. Dear Lucia will doubtlessly have endless realms of work for you for having stayed here the morning full,” came her tired response, but a smile could be spied upon her lips. “Go, Aymeric. We shall await you when you return—Hraesvel and I.”

Aymeric hesitated by the bed, and moved only when her lethargic hand came to push insistently against his abdomen, nudging him towards the door. “Alright—I shall go, you need not insist any further! I love you,” he proclaimed, even as he finally made his way out. “Most ardently, endlessly—and our son too.”

Even as he closed the door, he could hear a sleepy response from his wife, the quietest echo of his words with her voice.

He left their chambers to search for Claire, whom had watched over the Borel household for over forty years and watched him grow from errant bastard to Lord Speaker. And now she would see his son grow—a thought that filled him with a strange sense of wonder.

Aymeric had received many a title in his thirty-six years, but the title of father… Mayhap this would be the title he would hold with the utmost pride.

**Author's Note:**

> Elezen-viera mixed people would be ridiculously adorable. Also would you believe this was supposed to be angst about how a viera WoL would watch Aymeric and her children die before her due to their shorter lifespan?
> 
> :/


End file.
